


A Toy Story (the When Somebody Loved Me Remix)

by MiraMira



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Background Character Death, Background Het, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Crushes, Deviates From Canon, Growing Up, Hook-Up, Light Angst, M/M, Secret Identity, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 09:36:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12056223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraMira/pseuds/MiraMira
Summary: The first time Tony meets Bruce Wayne, he's five years old, and it's hate at first sight.  By the time they're teens, his feelings have changed significantly.  As for how long it takes him to do something about it...well, that's another story.





	A Toy Story (the When Somebody Loved Me Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Toy Story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/216459) by [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/pseuds/heeroluva). 



> Thanks for the inspiration, heeroluva! It's not the fandoms we matched on, but as soon as I saw the pairing and dynamic, I couldn't resist.
> 
> Note: I've had to do a lot of messing with the exact timeline between the two universes to make things match up, but this fic covers the events of all the Iron Man and Nolanverse Batman films as well as the first Avengers movie, and contains spoilers for all of the above (particularly the Dark Knight Rises).

The first time Tony sees Bruce Wayne, it is from the depths of the kind of epic sulk only achievable by a five year old who has been dragged to a black-tie charity event by his parents. Bruce is just a couple of years older, but comports himself like a miniature adult, politely smiling and answering questions about his hobbies and whether he enjoys school as he stands by his father’s side without a hint of fidgeting. Tony hates him immediately.

Or at least he thinks he does, until the post-dinner portion of the evening. He’s on the verge of nodding off in the middle of another interminable toast when a small, slimy pellet smacks him right in the forehead. Determining the spitball’s most likely trajectory, he traces it back across the table to where Bruce sits sipping his water, with only the tiniest trace of a smirk at the corners of his mouth to even hint his straw might have been elsewhere a moment ago.

With unrestrained glee, Tony sets about repurposing his silverware into a makeshift catapult. If good boy Brucie wants to fight dirty, he’d better be prepared for war.

Ten minutes later, dessert has devolved into a food fight, and Tony is being unceremoniously bundled into the back of the Starks’ car for sentencing. He bears his punishment of no cartoons for a month with remarkable aplomb, especially after his parents each slip him five dollars as thanks for providing an excuse to leave, while admonishing him not to tell the other.

They needn’t worry. Tony can keep secrets when he feels like it. After all, when their account of the evening makes it clear they consider him the only culprit, he never says a word to correct them.

-

Tony’s first real conversation with Bruce is at the Waynes’ funeral. While his parents are busy talking to the butler, he slips away in search of a distraction. Instead, he turns a corner and nearly runs headlong into Bruce. The other boy is staring off into space with an expression so bleak, Tony can’t help feeling he’s committed some unspeakable invasion of privacy.

“Sorry about your parents,” he offers into the void. Then, because this seems inadequate, and the silence is growing oppressive, he blurts the only other thing he can think to say: “Me and everyone else, I know.”

Bruce stares, then lets out a brief, strangled burst of noise. Tony is halfway to stammering out an apology before he realizes it’s a laugh. “Yeah.”

“Does it help?”

Something behind Bruce’s eyes goes dark, like a door slamming shut. “Will it bring them back?”

Even Tony knows better than to try and answer that one. Bruce turns away. “Then, yeah. Sorry doesn’t do much good.”

-

The first time Tony kisses Bruce is at the kind of party his mother was repeatedly assured he would not be attending before she signed off on his early admission to MIT. He never does figure out what Bruce is doing there. Princeton to Cambridge isn’t far by plane, but if Tony were going to make a similar jaunt for the hell of it, he’d at least hold out for Nantucket. Nor does he have any idea which of their mutual circle of poor little rich kids might have extended the invite. Based on the handful of post-funeral playdates the Starks arranged in a doomed but noble attempt to lift Bruce’s spirits, which mostly consisted of Bruce taking Tony on lengthy tours through the halls and secret passages of Wayne Manor while mournfully recounting tales of his late parents, Tony finds it difficult to imagine Bruce having real friends.

Nonetheless, there Bruce stands, drink in hand, laughing in all apparent sincerity at one of Sean “Stultifying” Stoltzfus’s jokes. Adolescence seems to have done wonders for his disposition. It hasn’t hurt his looks, either, Tony can’t help noticing.

Then he turns, and Tony almost misses a breath at the sight of his smile lighting up in recognition. Whatever his prior assessment of Bruce’s attractiveness, it’s nothing compared to the magnetic force of being at the center of his focus. “Stark! Been hearing so many stories about you, I feel as though we’ve already caught up.”

“Only the good ones, I hope,” says Tony, cracking open another beer as he displaces a resigned-looking Sean at Bruce’s side.

“Depends how you count the chemistry lab explosion.”

“Bless you for checking.” He’d put his arm around anyone else voicing a similar sentiment, but something about the gesture feels too dangerous to attempt under these circumstances. He settles instead for passing Bruce the open bottle and grabbing a new one for himself. “As I recall a certain young scholar inquiring when we were caught exploring that basement lair in your mansion, a man’s reach must exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?”

Bruce cocks his head, and Tony realizes that if he thought he had his full attention before, he doesn’t know the first thing about Bruce Wayne. “You remember that?”

Tony feels his face flush with embarrassment. He hopes Bruce assumes it’s the beer. “Well, y’know. Memory like a vibranium trap. If anyone had enough pure vibranium to waste it on a trap, that is.” Christ. He _hopes_ it’s only the beer that’s making him this much of an idiot. “It’s almost as much of a curse as a gift, really.”

“I’m still impressed.” Without taking his eyes off Tony’s, he motions toward the patio. “I was thinking of stepping outside for some air. Care to join me?”

Half-dazed, Tony follows. The patio is already strewn with couples who either giggle and dart for cover or are too wrapped up in each other to notice their approach. Bruce himself seems unfazed, to the point that Tony wonders if he really does just want to talk. That is, until they find an unclaimed spot behind a convenient pair of shrubs, and Bruce looks at him with an expression of such longing, naked _need_ that the only sensible response is to reach up on tiptoe and do everything in his power to drive it away, starting with his lips.

Tony’s kissed guys before - sometimes out of curiosity or boredom; sometimes as a shock tactic; once or twice in earnest - but never like this. When others have described losing track of where they ended and the other person began during makeouts, he’s assumed they were being dramatic. Turns out he owes some apologies. That is, if he ever gets around to doing anything again that doesn't involve finding interesting ways for his body and Bruce’s to connect, which is not a possibility he's willing to consider at the moment.

But just as Tony’s about to suggest they find somewhere less compromising to continue things, Bruce pulls back, disgust written on every line of his face. Tony braces himself for accusations of _“homo”_ or a punch to his suddenly iced-over gut. But the expression dissipates as Bruce shakes his head, and Tony realizes the emotion is targeted at something (or someone) else even before Bruce speaks: “You’re a kid.”

“So are you,” Tony points out.

“Only legally,” says Bruce. “And not much longer.”

“Then have some fun while you still can,” Tony wheedles, tugging on Bruce’s shirt sleeves with what he prays is coming across as something other than childish petulance.

Alas, an unamused Bruce gently extricates himself from Tony’s grip. “Definitely too late for that.”

“Fine,” says Tony, hiding his disappointment behind an exaggerated pout. “But when I’m People’s Sexiest Man Alive for the fourth year running, don’t come crying to me about having missed your chance.”

Bruce smiles a little at this. “Fair enough.” A thought appears to strike him. “Tell you what. Keep in touch, and when you’re eighteen, if you’re not too busy getting a start on your magazine idol career...we’ll see.”

Tony knows there’s no reason to grin like he’s been handed his dad’s lab equipment over what Bruce undoubtedly intends as a polite brush-off. He doesn’t care. “Fair enough.”

-

It isn’t that Tony forgets that night, or fails to follow up on Bruce’s suggestion. It’s just that they both avoid the merest hint of flirtation or talk of any joint future plans so assiduously in their correspondence, he finds it increasingly difficult to justify taking their “deal” the least bit seriously, let alone clearing his calendar in anticipation. Which is why he is genuinely dumbfounded when he pulls on a pair of boxers one particular sunny May morning, and opens his door to find Bruce on the other end of the insistent knocking. “What are you doing here?”

“Had some time before my flight,” says Bruce, eyeing the choice of attire approvingly. “Thought I should stop by to wish you a happy birthday. It is your birthday, right?”

“Yes, but, uh--”

“ _To_ -ny,” Janice Cord whines as though on cue, from the compromising position where he’s left her, “come back to bed.”

Tony silently chastises himself as he watches Bruce’s grin reconfigure itself into a far more controlled, muted expression. So much for his claims of a vibranium trap mind. But he can’t just kick the biggest gossip on campus to the curb, especially after reading the not-so-thinly-veiled threats in his father’s latest letter about the consequences of “indulging in behavior that might cause Stark Industry shareholders to question the future of the company.” Can he? Or maybe...no. Even if Bruce is the impromptu threesome type, Tony finds he doesn’t want to share with Janice. “Um…”

But Bruce is already smiling again, making shooing motions as though he hasn’t come all this way just to be shot down. “I’ll call ahead next time.”

“Please do,” says Tony fervently. In the time it’s taken him to find his voice, though, Bruce has made it down the hall and around the corner, and he can’t be sure he’s been heard without giving chase. Reluctantly, he closes the door and tries to muster up whatever remaining enthusiasm he can for Janice.

It isn’t until much later that he realizes the full extent of the opportunity he’s squandered, and curses his cowardice all over again. Turns out when Bruce says “my flight,” he doesn’t mean “back to New Jersey.”

-

Bruce isn’t there for the Starks’ funeral. Tony doesn’t expect him to be. Gossip over the wayward Wayne heir has long ago gone from speculation on where he might be and when he plans on returning, to whether he’s still alive. When anyone talks about him at all, that is. At this point, Tony thinks he and Bruce’s butler (who does put in a brief but gracious appearance, looking even more weighted down by the world than the last time Tony saw him) might be the only ones who care.

He was right, though. “Sorry” doesn’t make anything better.

A few months later, a postcard arrives, accompanied by an apology from the security guard who withheld it for fear it might be some kind of threat. He can’t blame the man for taking precautions. The front displays a mountain range he doesn’t recognize, obscured by a greeting in an alphabet he’s never seen, while the back is taken up with an elaborate doodle of some kind of prayer wheel and such a mess of postmarks he can barely make out what’s written underneath them. He is able to identify the signature, though, which is more than enough to prompt him to decipher the rest. 

_I’m not going to offer any platitudes like “you’ll get through this.” You will, or you won’t, and either way won’t be easy. But if one of us can figure it out, I’m hoping it’s you. - B.W._

Most of the sympathy cards and condolence letters Tony receives are discarded immediately. Bruce’s note gets tacked to a corner of Tony’s inspiration board for a while, then tucked away in a bureau drawer when Tony starts transferring those ideas over to J.A.R.V.I.S. He can’t say why he keeps it. He rarely even remembers it’s there. All he knows is that when he does stumble across it, simply picking it up imparts a feeling of resolve that lasts with him long after he’s returned it to its spot.

-

By the time Tony becomes aware of Bruce’s return, it’s all anyone can talk about. He does feel a slight flash of annoyance at not having been informed personally, but he supposes that even if Bruce were inclined to renew a closer acquaintance, getting oneself legally resurrected must be time-consuming. Besides, he’s developed a new obsession in the interim.

He’s fast-forwarding through a nightly news report to get to the financial update, when the sudden flash of a figure in black swooping through a mob of panicked citizens as it locks in on the cause of the commotion catches his attention. After pausing the footage, he spends the better part of an hour going back and forth through it, frame by frame. He can’t decide what he’s more captivated by: the deceptive sophistication of the suit, the graceful precision of the figure’s movement, or its laser-like focus on its target.

He also can’t quite identify the emotions coursing through him. Curiosity, certainly; admiration, and maybe even a bit of lust, but there’s something else there underlying it all. He thinks it might be envy, but that makes no sense. Why would a billionaire genius playboy philanthropist envy some masked weirdo with a death wish?

Then again, at least the masked weirdo is doing something useful with his life.

Tony shakes his head, wondering where _that_ came from. Say what one will about weapons manufacturing - and the world has plenty to say about it - it has a use, as Obadiah has pointed out time and time again. And that kind of attitude won’t help him nail this upcoming demonstration in Afghanistan. He puts the vigilante out of his mind for the time being.

Several weeks and a life-altering epiphany later, he returns to the recording. This time, he has J.A.R.V.I.S. transcribe notes. Lots of them.

-

Tony and Bruce’s reunion almost doesn’t happen. In fact, Tony can’t formulate a satisfactory answer to the question of what he’s doing at this Wayne Manor fundraiser for a politician he’s never heard of in a city he neither lives nor owns any business concerns in (even “free booze” doesn’t seem an adequate justification when the tickets start at $500), until the crowd parts to give him a glimpse of the evening’s putative host: the man he only now realizes he’s been waiting to see.

He catches his breath and braces himself for the familiar flutter as Bruce spots him and makes his way over. It’s still there, though considerably subdued. Good. Maybe he can get through this without making an adolescent fool out of himself.

“Stark!” says Bruce with the beginnings of a drunken slur, punctuated by the lack of control with which he slaps Tony on the back. “How’s the superhero business?”

“Can’t complain.” Well, he could, but they’d be there all night, and Tony’s learned people aren’t as interested in what real answers he’s willing to share as they think they are. “How’s business-business?”

“Ah, you don’t want to hear about that,” Bruce tells him. “Say, how long are you in town for? There’s this new bar on Miller Lane you have to try…”

After thirty seconds of small talk in this vein, Tony can only conclude that either his memories of Bruce are the result of uncharacteristically nostalgic idolization, or all the interesting bits of the man’s personality got stranded in customs somewhere during his travels. He couldn’t be a more perfect encapsulation of his vapid, hedonistic tabloid persona if he tried.

Wait. Perhaps Tony has it backwards. Maybe the impression is _too_ perfect to be real. He decides it’s worth another minute of excruciating boredom to rule out this possibility.

Fifteen minutes into their “conversation,” Tony thinks Bruce might be even more of a genius than he is. Once he’s identified the shallowness as a deliberately unthreatening front, it’s impossible not to spot the calculated wariness underneath. This is the first time he’s had to break out the gambit himself since Iron Man has reduced the number of fucks he has to pretend to give in meetings with high-ranking officials, but Bruce has it down to an art. 

What he can’t figure out is why. What threat does Bruce think he poses? Does he suspect Tony is there to suss out whether Wayne Enterprises is ripe for takeover? (It isn’t; his financial analysts have made that very, very clear on multiple occasions.) Or does he just want an end to the interminable chatter? And if so, why hasn’t he taken one of the dozen or so opportunities to walk away that have already presented themselves?

Still, mystery or no, there is only so much blather about the Gotham Knights’ most recent game Tony can tolerate. He snags a canape off a passing waiter, turns back to make his excuses to Bruce, and finds the view blocked by another waiter carrying a drinks tray.

Tony has to admit, Bruce’s ramblings are a lot easier to take when he can just focus on the man’s lips. He wonders if there’s a way to convince Bruce he should hire a whole fleet of waiters as a constant buffer. Or maybe if he just wore a cowl all the time, like...

Holy. Shit. Holy fucking shit. 

Everything falls into place with a clarity he’s only felt before when working on his armor. The long, silent absence from Gotham; the source of Batman’s drool-worthy high-tech arsenals; the coincidental timing of the prodigal son’s return and the Dark Knight’s rise; the borderline theatrical displays of dissipation; even the brief glimpses he’s been granted of bone-deep resentment at an unfair, uncaring universe: it all adds up to a single, inescapable conclusion. How can he be the only one who sees this? How could he not have seen it until now?

The waiter is long gone, and Bruce is staring at him, all pleasant vacancy vanished from his eyes. He knows Tony knows. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to have made up his mind yet what he wants to do about it.

Tony wants to laugh, except he’s afraid that if he starts, he’ll never stop. He wants...he can’t decide what he wants, either. Not here. What he really wants - what he _needs_ \- is Bruce all to himself.

That, at least, he thinks he knows how to achieve. Slinging a friendly arm around Bruce’s shoulders, he escorts him on a leisurely route toward the ballroom doors, nattering on about women and sportscars all the while. They are not accosted, or even noticed; apparently, Bruce has done such a thorough job convincing everyone of his uselessness that no one cares if he goes missing at his own party.

A few waiters in the halls look up quizzically from their hors d’oeuvres trays, but Bruce doesn’t object as Tony waves them off with a cheerful “Just helping Mr. Wayne back to his room!” He does, however, look increasingly torn between curiosity and anxiety as Tony steers them in the opposite direction, until he finds the hidden mechanism he’s looking for. As Bruce’s eyes bug out at the sight of the secret passage opening, he gives up on trying to contain his giggles. “Vibranium trap memory,” he reminds Bruce, pulling him down the steps. “Besides, where else would you hide your...”

His voice dies in his throat as his foot connects with the floor of Bruce’s control center (Batcave? Nah; no way Bruce would ever call it anything that corny), which lights up in response. So does Tony, who hardly knows where to look first. Then he spots the suit, and nearly forgets everything else - Bruce included - in his eagerness to study it. “Hardened plates on titanium-coated fabric,” he muses, tracing a hand across the glass display case. “Good flexibility, but vulnerable at the seams. I might be able to help with that.” 

“Who says I’m looking for help?” asks Bruce, with only a slight tremor to suggest he’s turning down Tony’s assistance with anything more serious than hanging a picture frame.

Just like that, Tony can feel himself regressing to fifteen years old. Only this time, the rejection is wrapped up in professional as well as personal pride, which turns his defensive teasing into a full-blown taunt. “You’re good, Brucie. Always have been. But not this good. Someone had to manufacture these toys for you. And I doubt you came up with all of them on your own. That cape’s a stumper even for me.”

“It’s called memory cloth,” says Bruce smugly. “Or would be, if I had any intention of putting it on the market at this stage. Run a current through it, and it turns semi-rigid.”

Tony lets out a low whistle. He’s worked on similar concepts, but has yet to complete a prototype safe for human testing. “I’ll admit, I’m impressed. I also understand why you’d rather I not meet the inventor. Though if you’ll at least let us compare anonymous notes, I think we could really--”

“How?” Bruce demands.

Tony can tell he isn’t talking about setting up a go-between. “Besides the fact I know exactly what kind of resources it takes to do the superhero thing when you haven’t got superhuman abilities?” He walks over and lays a finger right down the center of Bruce’s cupid’s bow. “You left one of your more distinguishing features exposed.”

“My lips?” The vibration from Bruce’s words sends a tingle through Tony’s entire arm and straight to his core.

“Distinguishing,” Tony repeats, as he withdraws the finger and leans forward, “for those who know what to look for. And I do.” Only an inch of space remains between them. “Always have.”

Before he can lose his nerve, or think about what it means that he’s afraid of losing it, he closes the gap and kisses Bruce. No: “kissing” was barely an adequate descriptor for their teenage fumbling. It doesn’t begin to cover the greediness with which Tony _devours_ Bruce’s mouth, or the fireworks that flood his brain as Bruce’s tongue pushes past his lips. He barely feels it when they stumble off-balance and land pressed up against one of the consoles.

“Get off,” Bruce growls, without any real force.

“That’s the plan,” murmurs Tony, running a hand up the inside of Bruce’s thigh, brushing against his hardening cock as he cups his balls. He squeezes more tightly than intended in his excitement, but judging from the way Bruce inhales, a little bit of pain mixed with the pleasure won’t go amiss. First, though, he needs to get their clothes out of the way before they become any more of a nuisance.

Bruce appears to be thinking along the same lines, as he shrugs off his jacket as best he can with Tony still holding one wrist pinned. “Thought I’d missed out, after your fourth People cover.”

Tony nips Bruce’s neck while yanking at what was described to him in excruciating detail earlier in the evening as a $400 hand-stitched silk shirt, sending buttons flying. “Lucky for you they weren’t consecutive.”

Bruce laughs and helps Tony finish unclasping his belt buckle. They don’t waste much time exchanging unnecessary words after that.

-

Tony wakes up cold, sore, sticky, and blissfully happy. Even discovering that a good portion of the soreness comes from the fact he’s been using a monitor as a pillow does nothing to dent his mood. Next time, they’ll have to at least try and make it to a soft surface.

Wait. Next time? Tony doesn’t do next times. Certainly not now, with this ticking time bomb where he can’t remember if he ever really had a heart. And the last thing Bruce Wayne needs is someone else capable of breaking his.

Of course, if it turns out Bruce sees this as just a momentary diversion or mistake, never to be repeated...for some reason, Tony doesn’t think he can stand that, either. He has to get out of here, before Bruce wakes up and there’s no way to avoid the one thing they never got around to discussing last night.

He can’t leave without saying _anything_ , though. In the end, he scrawls a quick, awkward _“Thanks for the great fuck”_ on a bit of scrap paper, adds _“Batman”_ to ensure there’s no chance Bruce will want to keep the missive, and slips past the security cameras.

By the time he’s willing to admit to himself this might not have been the best strategy, he’s back in his own lab, refusing visitors and dodging Pepper’s increasingly frustrated demands as he awaits a call from Bruce with an unfamiliar mixture of dread and anticipation: the kind he’s given to understand that normal people generally experience while dating. It doesn’t come. He ignores the nagging instinct that any rapprochement is going to have to start with him, and buries himself in his work.

-

By the time Tony is absolutely, without a doubt, 100% certain the note was the worst in the long, long string of spectacularly poor judgment calls that have characterized his life, Harvey Dent is dead and Bruce has sentenced himself to exile within the shadows of Wayne Manor. Tony knows there’s more to the official story than Gotham’s Commissioner is saying, but if Batman refuses to clear his own name, there must be a reason. He’s just liable to make things worse by meddling.

Besides, even if Bruce isn’t a killer, the insanity rumors might be true. Maybe they always were. It’s not like Tony can claim to know the guy based on a youthful acquaintance, one night of (admittedly phenomenal) passion, and more hours of voyeuristic study than he dares ask J.A.R.V.I.S. to add up.

Then alien ships flood the sky over New York, and Tony’s got maintaining his own sanity - not to mention survival, along with that of the rest of the human race - to keep him occupied. If anything, he thinks he understands Bruce’s desire to be left alone better than ever, despite the voice in his head that sounds like some disturbing amalgamation of Pepper, Rhodey, J.A.R.V.I.S., and his mother that wonders if that’s the best idea for either of them.

He does corner Nick Fury with a question that’s been nagging him, though: “When you were putting together the Initiative, was there anyone else specific you considered for my role?” 

Nick snorts. “Considered? Yes. Approached? Hell no. The guy’s an even worse team player than you.”

Tony can’t argue with that. And even if he wanted to, Fury’s not the one who needs to hear him out.

-

Tony’s all but resigned himself to the hopefully long-distant day when he stumbles on Bruce’s obituary as the only closure he’ll get to their pathetic excuse for a story, when the Avengers get called in to deal with the newest madman holding Gotham hostage. He accepts a ride with the others to conserve power, only to regret it almost immediately when everyone (except Natasha, who probably knows what’s going on) notices his uncharacteristic silence and keeps asking if he’s all right. Obviously he’s not. And at the same time, even the chance he might see Bruce - in action, no less - makes his heart race in a way even the knowledge they’re headed into certain danger can’t match.

Of course, once they do arrive, there’s no time to waste on brooding. They fight their way past the terrorists, to where a catsuited woman on an imposing cycle Tony suspects she’s borrowed (or “borrowed”) from a mutual friend informs them the group’s leader can be found. Hulk smashes through the wall of the building, just as an otherwise unassuming woman slides a blade between Batman’s ribs with one hand. The other is clutching a device topped with an ominous-looking red button.

"She's got the detonator!" their guide in the catsuit cautions, but Tony’s arm blaster is up and humming before he has time to think.

“Stand down,” Steve orders, in a tone that seems directed at Tony as much as the assailant. Tony isn’t particularly inclined to comply, except that the woman is staring at Natasha with an expression that suggests he might not have first claim on revenge here.

“The Demon’s Daughter,” snarls Natasha.

The woman takes a quick glance at the rest of the group, lingers on Tony a second longer than the others, then drops the knife without abandoning her calm demeanor. “Natalia. Haven’t seen you since...Budapest, was it?”

“Please tell me this means I can blast her,” says Tony.

Steve, along with everyone else, ignores him. “Hand over the detonator, ma’am.”

Instead, the woman pushes the button, while simultaneously hurling a smoke bomb. By the time it clears, she’s vanished.

“She’ll be heading north,” wheezes Bruce. At first, Tony’s concerned the smoke has gotten into his lungs or the stabbing has left him barely able to speak, until he realizes Bruce thinks he’s disguising his voice. “Toward the weapon.”

“Need a lift?” offers the woman in the catsuit.

Without waiting to consult anyone else, Natasha hops on the back of the cycle, and the two speed off. Hulk, Steve, and Thor have already taken off on foot, and Tony hears a faint noise from the roof that he assumes is Hawkeye’s grappling hook. He turns to Bruce, who is clutching his side, although the way he stares at the spot vacated by his attacker hints at a deeper, more intimate wound.

“Were you two close?” asks Tony, not really wanting the answer.

“I’m not the best judge when it comes to feelings,” says Bruce, either still using his Batman voice or choked with bitterness. “Clearly.”

Tony sighs. “I deserve that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Bruce snaps. “Assuming the jammer works - which it must’ve, or we’d be dead by now - we still only have minutes to deal with the bomb. I need to--”

“We have a Hulk,” says Tony. “And a Norse god. And a guy who can handle being frozen for decades. _You_ need to stay here and focus on not bleeding to death. I know it’s your city, but take the help.” He shivers involuntarily, remembering a different doomsday device and a sky of unfamiliar stars, an unanswered phone and the streets of Manhattan looming ever larger until all goes black. “Trust me.”

At least Bruce has dropped the ridiculous rasp, though the hurt and wariness in his voice still makes Tony wince. “What do you care?”

“Besides the fact it comes with the superhero gig, and you’ve already got enough PTSD to keep every psychiatrist in the tri-state area gainfully employed for the rest of their lives?” He loosens his grip on Bruce’s arm, and removes a glove so he can take his hand instead, making sure that Bruce is looking at him through the cowl. “I know “sorry” doesn’t undo anything. But if there’s any way we can get things right going forward...I’m not going to let this go without trying. I’m damn sure not going to let _you_ go throw your life away because you think the world doesn’t need you any more.” He squeezes Bruce’s fingers gently. “And who knows? Between the two of us, maybe we can find a way to go back and unfuck the past, too.” 

Bruce stares at him for a long time, eyes unreadable behind the mask. Then, just as Tony’s about to accept he’s broken this too badly to fix, he takes a deep, ragged breath. “Save Gotham first. Then...we can talk.”

Tony lowers his faceplate so Bruce can’t see how hard he’s grinning, and reattaches his glove in preparation for lift-off. “Fair enough.”


End file.
